


The Measure of Civility

by SavioBriion



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Avarin Erestor, Cultural Appropriation, Cultural Differences, Cultural References, Fantastic Racism, Immigrant Erestor, M/M, Racism, TRSB2020, The Avari, Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:26:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26357932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SavioBriion/pseuds/SavioBriion
Summary: TRSB 2020 collaboration - fic by SavioBriion, art by Zhie.When Glorfindel returns to Middle-Earth, he finds himself intrigued by Erestor, an Avarin immigrant in Imladris.
Relationships: Erestor/Glorfindel (Tolkien)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zhie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/gifts).



> While technically Glorfindel, Alatar and Pallando arrived on the shores of Middle-Earth around S.A. 1600, I have decided that in this story they only arrived shortly after S.A. 2000 – after the War of the Elves and Sauron, but before the appearance of the Nazgûl. I wanted them to arrive when Imladris was already well-established.
> 
> Erestor, in this story, is an Avarin Elf, and therefore much darker than the other Elves of Imladris and from a different cultural background. I will be exploring this – his culture, Noldorin and Vanyarin culture, his identity as a minority who studies and lives with the Noldor, the casual racism and microaggressions he faces, etc – in the story, and in many cases I draw on my own experiences as a Singaporean Tamil immigrant in Australia. If any of this content makes you uncomfortable, I hope you’ll be able to sit with it and learn something.
> 
> Canonically the Avari split into six named tribes. I have decided that the Kindi are basically Indians, and the Kinn-lai are Chinese. They live near human tribes and kingdoms which are essentially of the same respective culture/language. I thought it might be a neat little trick for the humans who were culturally & linguistically influenced by the Kindi to be called Indi, so that is what they’re called. I have also made my own additions to the geography of Rhûn, adding elements such as the Silk Road and expanding it while trying to remain within the basic constraints of canon.
> 
> I have taken liberties with some things, such as playing with Indian garb/making it less gendered, and giving the Elves a more historical-Western-Europe-inspired fashion than I normally prefer.
> 
> Translations are in hovertext. Banner made by me. 
> 
> Thank you to [Zhie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie) for the [art](https://www.deviantart.com/z-h-i-e/art/Untitled-854359399), [AnnElspethRaven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnEllspethRaven/pseuds/AnnEllspethRaven) for beta-ing, and [Ulan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulan/pseuds/Ulan) and [peasantswhy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peasantswhy/pseuds/peasantswhy) for general cheerleading.

_… For some, and of those Ulmo was the chief, held that the Quendi should be left free to walk as they would in Middle-earth, and with their gifts of skill to order all the lands and heal their hurts…_

_… But the Elves were at first unwilling to hearken to the summons, for they had as yet seen the Valar only in their wrath as they went to war, save Oromë alone; and they were filled with dread…_

_… Then befell the first sundering of the Elves… many refused the summons, preferring the starlight and the wide spaces of Middle-earth to the rumour of the Trees; and these are the Avari, the Unwilling, and they were sundered in that time from the Eldar, and met never again until many ages were past…_

_… the Úmanyar and the Avari alike they call the Moriquendi, Elves of the Darkness, for they never beheld the Light that was before the Sun and Moon._

**_Of the Coming of the Elves; The Silmarillion._ **

[ ](https://imgur.com/w9y6V4G)

* * *

_By the second millennium of the Second Age, Lindon was held to be the jewel of Elvendom in Middle-earth – at least by the Noldor. The royal palace at Lindon was glorious to behold especially at dusk; the setting rays of the western sun set its stone walls ablaze, its banners caught high in the sea-breeze beneath the wheeling gulls. Its streets were full of friendly bustle and eager merchants selling every luxury imaginable, for in those times of peace it received ambassadors and trade caravans from as far south and east as Harad and Rhûn, as well as from Númenor, though those last were declining of late. Thus it was said that the court of Gil-galad was a court of wonders – if the members of the court in question are to be believed._

Erestor paused, tapping his quill against his lips. _Objectivity_ , he reminded himself. _And pandering to a mostly Noldorin audience_.

He leaned back in his chair, casting his gaze out of the window; it was a pleasant view, overlooking the little garden courtyard by the Library. Lavender grew thickly there, its soothing fragrance interspersed with the fresher, sharper scent of mint and the soft sweet perfumes of marigolds and chamomile. It was beautiful, soothing, but sometimes he felt a slight pang for the sharp bright flowers he had grown up with.

There was a knock on the door of his tiny office, and Melpomaen poked his head in. “Master Erestor, Elrond is calling for an urgent meeting in the large council room.”

“Now?” It was late in the afternoon, when most Elves were setting their work aside for some leisure before dinner.

“Yes – a courier just arrived, and I think he brought an urgent letter from the King.”

“Thank you, Melpomaen, I shall be there shortly.”

Melpomaen nodded and ducked out hurriedly, as Erestor capped his ink and cleaned his quill. Elrond had mentioned having some visions recently, but had not said anything about their contents, save that it was a matter of great import and he would say nothing until he was surer of what to expect. Erestor supposed the message from Gil-galad had confirmed it, whatever it was.

Smoothing his robes, he left for the council rooms.

* * *

Elrond was standing at the head of the table, brow furrowed slightly as Erestor and other members of Imladris’ Council hurried in and took their seats. As everyone settled down and quieted expectantly, he unfurled one of the scrolls on the table before him; it bore Gil-galad’s seal and was much shorter than the usual missives from the King.

“I am sorry to call you here on such short notice, but I have received urgent messages from King Gil-galad, and from Círdan,” Elrond began. “Their news is almost unbelievable, but for a while now I have foreseen aid from the Valar, and it has arrived.”

Shocked murmurs spread through the room.

“Do you mean – are we to receive another Host of the West?” Faeldis, Imladris’ Chief Counsellor, cried excitedly.

“No, nothing on that scale. The Valar have sent three emissaries. Two of them call themselves the Istari, the messengers of the Valar, though in appearance they are like Men. And the third is an Elf.” Elrond paused briefly, and Erestor allowed himself a small smirk at the Half-Elf’s penchant for dramatics. “Glorfindel of Gondolin.”

“ _What_?”

“How?”

“But he is dead!” Erestor exclaimed. “The dead do not return to these shores.”

“He has, apparently, been reembodied by the Valar. He and the Istari stayed briefly at Lindon, but Gil-galad says that they would have set out shortly after he sent this and will arrive here within the week.”

“A week? To prepare to house emissaries of the Valar?” Boridhren already looked frantic, beginning to make notes of what he would need.

“Eönwë himself slept in a tent the last time he was here, Boridhren, calm down,” Erestor interjected. “Surely the guest rooms near the chambers the King uses will do.”

“I know your kind does not care for the Valar, Erestor, but _I_ intend to show them due reverence.”

Silence fell, as Erestor narrowed his eyes. “My kind?”

“Well!” Faeldis clapped her hands, her smile somewhat fixed. “If we only have a week, Lord Elrond, may we be excused? Preparations must begin!”

Elrond’s gaze shifted between them for a moment, his expression inscrutable, before he sighed. “Yes. You may go, and I will break the news to the rest of Imladris at dinner.”

Erestor sat there for a moment longer, watching Boridhren and the others avoid his eyes as they left; Morfinnel, the deputy Captain of Imladris, squeezed his shoulder on her way out. As the room emptied, Elrond came to stand beside him.

“Erestor, I will speak to him privately –”

Erestor rose. “I will see you at dinner, my Lord.”

* * *

The week passed in a flurry of activity; Imladris’ finest guest chambers were aired out and cleaned from top to bottom, and the scholars found themselves suddenly besieged for information on the food and architecture and fashions and literature of Gondolin and Valinor.

“If they wanted to stay in a replica of Tirion, they would not have come here in the first place,” Erestor repeated. “And in any case I should think our pale, hasty replicas would be an insult. I think you should focus on displaying the best of Imladris instead of trying to make their rooms look like a library exhibit.”

“I think they would be honoured by our attempts regardless, and they would feel at home,” Faeldis cut over him, shaking out the decoration ideas Boridhren had shown her. “These look excellent, though Malthorn should go over the budget with you before I can approve it. Thorndûr, have you a menu?”

Isteth, the head librarian, glanced at Erestor with a shared look of frustration, but said nothing. With a last scathing glance at Boridhren and Faeldis, Erestor looked down at the menu.

* * *

“Good gracious,” Erestor grumbled to Isteth, their arms full of newly woven hangings as they walked to the guest chambers. “We do not even stand on this much ceremony for Gil-galad. And as tempting as it is to let them all do this to themselves, I do feel rather sorry for our guests.”

Isteth sighed. “As do I. Why do you think Elrond says nothing, Erestor? He clearly disagrees with them, and he never looks happy at the meetings, but if he would only say no...”

“Personally, I suspect it is because half of them are related to members of the Council at Lindon, with their own court intrigues and goals.” Erestor glanced around, but the servants hurrying past were intent on their own tasks. “And ever since the first Númenorean havens were built, a lot of that Council has been grumbling about having to help Men and having a Peredhel informally accounted Gil-galad’s heir. I am not sure Elrond feels he has the standing or authority to push them overmuch, honestly, though he is lord of this place.” His voice betrayed his own frustration, though he still sympathised with the half-Elf. 

“Politics.” Isteth made a small scornful sound. “When I agreed to run the library, I was not expecting so many council meetings.”

They reached the guest rooms and entered amidst the whirlwind of activity there, handing their bundles to a rather harried-looking Elf who was directing the new furnishings, before taking the opportunity to look around the chambers that would be Glorfindel’s, gleaming in white and gold.

“My eyes hurt,” Erestor muttered, and Isteth giggled. “Glorfindel and the Istari have my genuine sympathy.”

Marble furnishings had been popular in the First Age, but had long fallen out of fashion; Erestor was not sure if the furnishings now had been dragged out of some forgotten storeroom at Mithlond and sent to Imladris, or made freshly for the occasion. Rayed suns wrought of beaten gold, bigger than Erestor’s head, had been affixed to the centre of every doorway and to the main door leading from the corridor into the sitting room, and smaller golden celandines appeared to have been stuck onto everything possible. An armour stand bearing a very fancy set of ceremonial armour had been placed in one corner; it looked like a replica from an old depiction of Glorfindel from the history books, but with additional ornate flourishes. Various other First Age artefacts from the library and from storage had been cleaned and polished and placed on shelves or hung on the walls.

Simple standing candelabra made to look like small slender saplings, with the candles nestled in curling leafy branches made of dark bronze, were commonplace throughout the rest of Imladris, but here on either side of the dining nook stood two tall candelabra made to look like what Erestor supposed were the Two Trees, one in silver and one in gold. Hung around the rooms were tapestries and paintings depicting Tirion, Turgon and his family, and even one of Glorfindel facing the Balrog; Erestor winced when he saw it.

“I do not think he would like to be reminded of his _death_.”

Melpomaen passed them then, a stack of books in his arms – probably the freshly made copies of some First Age books as well as history tomes covering the Second Age thus far, if Erestor was remembering the plans correctly. “That was what I said when Boridhren asked if we had one,” he chimed in, looking as tired as it was possible for an Elf to look. “But he only said it was important we recognise Glorfindel’s glory and his sacrifice.”

Isteth shook her head. “This is ridiculous. The cost alone… and if it were me I would be so uncomfortable in rooms like these, such a poor replica of my home and so gaudy and bright.”

“Yes, but you are a Sindarin librarian of Imladris and you have good taste,” Erestor replied wryly. “Glorfindel is a great Lord of Gondolin, and who knows? He might be expecting this… mausoleum of the First Age and more as his due.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I do not think the Valar would choose such a champion.”

“Well, whether he will like this or no, he is getting it.”

“Hm.” She glanced around the room one last time, and as they left, asked, “I wonder what the emissaries of the Valar _are_? Surely if they are simply Elves like Finarfin, there would be no need for Glorfindel and they would have referred to themselves as Eldar. But they apparently look like Men; they cannot be Valar themselves, and they _certainly_ are not Men. Maiar, perhaps?”

Erestor mulled over it as they walked back to the library. “I should think the obvious choice for emissaries would be Maiar, like Eönwë and Melian. What do you think they will look like?”

“Like Eönwë himself, I suppose. Beautiful, otherworldly, powerful, slightly glowing, in full armour… but why send two of them, when only Eönwë came for the War of Wrath? We are not going to war now.”

“I suppose we shall get our answers when they arrive.”

* * *

If it was possible for a courtyard to look manicured, this one did. Even the flagstones had been scrubbed.

Normally the greenery lining the path up to the House was allowed to grow a little wild, spilling trailing leaves and flowers into the path and up the buildings and perfuming the air. Recently, however, the gardeners had been marshalled to trim everything within an inch of its life and make it look as neat as possible. And while there were still flowers lining the path, Erestor knew that further into the gardens the bushes and trees had been practically plucked bare so that masses of flowers could be used in the feast-hall and the guest quarters. It was a very Noldorin approach to gardening, he privately reflected, and it felt unnatural and set him on edge.

He stood a little behind Elrond, with Faeldis and the rest of the Council on the front steps of Imladris, as the little party rode into the courtyard, and an excited susurrus spread through the crowd behind him. He found he could only partly share in the excitement; as eager as he was to see these emissaries for himself and perhaps learn a little more about Valinor, he was also fully aware of his own status as the first Avarin Elf who had done more than briefly visit and trade in the West, and he was not sure how the emissaries would react. Unknown to the Noldor, minor Maiar had often travelled in Rhûn and been welcomed by the people there, but _these_ emissaries bore the weight of responsibilities appointed by the Valar themselves, and for all the Avari knew the Valar still felt snubbed.

Surrounded by an honour guard of Imladrim who had ridden out to meet them, Glorfindel and the two Istari rode up to their group on white horses, tiny bells tinkling on their reins. Glorfindel himself gleamed in light armour, his golden hair shining in the sunlight and his face young and fair and lit as one who had seen the Trees, practically radiating strength and puissance, and Erestor caught his breath; he had always been intrigued by Noldorin history, and to see a lord of Gondolin in the flesh was more than he had hoped. Glorfindel certainly looked the part; nobility was draped around his shoulders like a comfortable cloak, and his magnificent stallion bore deep green barding with the rayed sun of his House upon it.

Then his gaze slid to the two riding behind Glorfindel, clad in blue robes and cloaks, and this time he nearly gasped.

The Istari indeed looked like Men, but they looked nothing like the Men of Númenor or Eriador. They looked… like the peoples of Rhûn. Like Erestor’s people. The one riding closest to them looked like an aged mortal woman, but her skin was as dark as Erestor’s own, her hair a light grey shading to white and just as curly as his, and as she dismounted, supporting herself with a tall carved staff, she met Erestor’s gaze and smiled as if pleasantly surprised. Her gaze held deep wisdom and immense memory, like the shaded reflecting pools of his homeland.

Elrond was speaking words of welcome, and Erestor had to force himself to focus on his lord.

As he watched, Glorfindel knelt and said in a clear voice, “I offer you my service, Elrond Eärendilion.”

“And gratefully I accept, Lord Glorfindel of Gondolin. You are most welcome here in Imladris.”

The two Istari bowed their heads to Elrond, and the woman spoke in softly accented Sindarin – the same accent Erestor himself had. “I am Alatar, and this is my companion Pallando. We thank you for your welcome and hospitality, Lord Elrond. We have business in the far East and will be journeying hence, but we will be pleased to rest here first. Our companions and fellow Istari will soon arrive, and they will remain in these western parts of Arda to give you what assistance and guidance they may.”

Elrond bowed. “I am most honoured to receive emissaries of the Valar, and will await the coming of your companions as eagerly as we did yours. I hope you enjoy your stay in the Last Homely House East of the Sea, before you travel further. Please rest and refresh yourselves before dinner; we have prepared a feast in your honour.”

At this they seemed almost uncomfortable.

“I hope you did not go to too much effort on our account,” Alatar replied politely. “But we are grateful, and we look forward to tonight.”

The group broke up then, forming a path for their guests to enter the House, but instead Alatar approached Erestor, a small smile on her kind, lined face. She wore a simple dark blue wrap, draped and pleated in the same manner that the Kindi women and the neighbouring older human women favoured.

“ _Vanakkam. Naan oru Kindiyei ingu santhikka ethirpaarkavillei _.”

It had been a few years since he had last seen his family, since he had heard his native tongue, and for a long moment Erestor could not answer. Straightening, he drew himself together and replied in Kindi, “Nor did I. I am honoured to meet you, Lady Alatar.”

There was a small wry twist to her lips. “Just Alatar will do. We rather botched our first meetings with your people, I think. I hope I will be more welcome there; there is much I hope to learn from the Kindi and the other Avari, and their human neighbours.”

 _Oh._ “You speak our language. That is more than any outsider has ever done. And it is music to my ears; I have not heard it in a while.”

Pallando joined them then, leaning on his own staff; he was a little taller and stouter, dressed in paler blue robes. He sported a little white moustache and beard, his skin was a much lighter golden-brown, and all in all he looked like a sage from one of the human tribes who lived near the Kinn-lai. 

“You can guess where I am going,” he said in slightly accented Sindarin, and Erestor took that as his cue to switch back to Sindarin as well.

“Please, let me know if I can be of any assistance to either of you in your preparations for travel.”

“Thank you – we may take you up on that.”

With parting smiles they moved inside the House. Glorfindel had been waiting for them next to Elrond, and as they approached he, too, shot Erestor a small smile before moving inside. Erestor shifted back as Faeldis shot past him, moving quickly to catch up to the group so that she could lead them to their rooms – and, he thought privately and uncharitably, to ingratiate herself to them.

 _They are going to Rhûn_. His mind whirled as he went inside; he had not been expecting that. The Noldor’s wars had centred on their own part of Middle-Earth, and the Valar had only ever seemed concerned with them. What could it mean, for them to now take an interest further East? Did it mean that danger and the Shadow were spreading there? He worried at one of his rings as he moved back to his office, deep in thought.

* * *

Erestor laid his fork down, already feeling full even though the feast was still ongoing. The tables practically creaked under the weight of all the food laid out on fine polished silver and crystal dishes: whole roast peacocks dressed in their feathers, roast venison and armoured turnips and stuffed eggs, vegetable and cheese pies and elaborate pastry sotelties, baked fish amidst fresh greens and plump boiled chickens with oranges, soft bread with herbed butter and fresh cheeses, stewed mushrooms and stewed pork with apples and beef in wine sauce… in this, at least, the ostentation was delicious.

It was a little strange, since over the past several centuries the increased spice trade with Harad and Rhûn had greatly altered Elven cuisine, and yet these were all First Age recipes, redolent with herbs and sparsely sharp with pepper and yet missing the flavours of cumin and cloves, mace and saffron, that had become familiar to even the most conservative Noldorin and Sindarin Elves. Erestor, of course, had been raised on spices, but he found the feast pleasant enough for one evening, and his main concern now was saving space for the sweet fritters, honeyed cakes and stewed fruits in wine that were being brought out.

He could not help but spare some concern for their guests at the high table, however; he himself was seated elsewhere with the other administrators and scholars who did not merit such high seats, but he still noted that while the Istari and Glorfindel ate with a healthy appetite, they seemed slightly uncomfortable with how lavish everything was. Elrond, too, had clearly noticed, and though he seemed calm, Erestor could read his quiet sadness at having caused his guests discomfort.

Faeldis stood then, clearing her throat.

“I have a presentation for you, my Lords and Lady. It is a surprise we worked very hard upon, and I hope it pleases the eye and delights the tongue.” She clapped her hands, and two Elves brought in a towering[ marchpane](https://leobalecelad.wordpress.com/2017/05/01/marchpane/) confection made to look exactly like the city of Gondolin. It had been created very skilfully, each small tower delicately shaped and with tiny panes of painted spun-sugar, made to look like the banners of Turgon’s House and the other twelve Houses of Gondolin, studding the walls. A final layer of sugar and rosewater had been added to make the entire confection sparkle.

Elrond might have been the one blessed with foresight, but at that moment Erestor saw what was coming very clearly, and winced.

“It is lovely,” Glorfindel said politely. “Quite accurate; I applaud your artisans. What is it made of?”

“Marchpane, my Lord. A confection of sugar and ground almonds and rosewater. It has become a popular sweetmeat in this Age.”

He blinked, looking faintly horrified. “You… wish me to break Gondolin apart and eat it.”

The hall was abruptly quiet, the hushed silence of Elves holding their collective breaths. Faeldis blanched. “I – I meant no disrespect, my Lord, we often have marchpane palaces at Yule and I thought –” She fell silent, swallowing.

“It was a kind thought, Faeldis,” Elrond smoothed over. “You gave us a gift at great expense, one that took much research and skill. Please convey my praise to the confectioners.”

She nodded gratefully, signing to the other two Elves with her, and they backed away from the high table with the marchpane platter. Glorfindel settled back in his chair with a small relieved exhale as Elrond pressed his hand slightly, and noticeably turned his attention to his poached pears with some effort.

Next to Erestor, Melpomaen exhaled; on his other side, Isteth let out a small shocked giggle.

“Wonder of wonders, I feel sorry for Faeldis,” she said softly. “And for Lord Glorfindel!”

*


	2. Chapter 2

The door that Melpomaen had pointed him to, tucked away in a corner of the library, was half-open, leading to a tiny office, and Glorfindel paused in the doorway and knocked. He watched as the Elf inside straightened and turned to face him, looking surprised for a fleeting second.

“My Lord Glorfindel,” Erestor greeted. “What brings you here?”

Every other Elf he had run into thus far had been falling over themselves to offer him assistance and ask if he needed any help or creature comfort; this Elf merely raised an eyebrow and wanted to know why he was there. It was refreshing.

“Alatar and Pallando are looking over maps with Elrond, and they were hoping you could join them.” Glorfindel hoped the open curiosity he felt was not too visible on his face, as he studied the other Elf. Erestor’s desk and chair were situated as to make the most of the afternoon sunlight, which had the effect of bathing his warm umber skin in soft gold; his ears were pierced, a strange thing to Glorfindel’s eyes, and he wore small golden ornaments in them, and his dark hair was tightly curled. He rose, picking up the dark scholar’s robe that had been slung over his chair and shrugging it on over his doublet, and then fetching a small stack of books and scrolls which appeared to have been set aside on a chair.

“They are in Lord Elrond’s map room, I assume?”

“I suppose so?” Glorfindel stepped back to allow the shorter Elf to pass. “It is a room full of maps, that is all I know.”

Erestor strode past him, but paused and turned back, regarding him with dark, serious eyes. “My Lord, if I may – I hold no responsibility for the decisions made by the senior counsellors such as Faeldis, but still I apologise for the discomfort they have likely caused.”

Glorfindel was not sure if he meant the horrific rooms, or the marchpane confection, or the pomp, or all of it. “Thank you, Lord Erestor.”

“Master.”

“Sorry?” Glorfindel stuttered.

“I am not a Lord, not of the Noldor. My title is Master.” Erestor’s voice was calm, but Glorfindel thought he could detect the faint, tired steel of someone used to insisting that his earned title be used.

“My apologies, Master Erestor.”

Erestor nodded to him and set off at a brisk pace towards the map room. As they walked, he asked, “How are you finding your rooms?”

“Uh. They are very luxurious, and very well-appointed,” Glorfindel tried, but Erestor did not seem fooled by his words or his stiff smile.

“In their defence, it was all done out of a great enthusiasm and desire for you to be comfortable and feel at home. Still, good intentions are no excuse for causing discomfort. You should just tell them, if you dislike the rooms so, and ask for it to be altered to your liking.”

“They went to so much effort to cater to what they thought my taste would be, though, and to recreate what they thought my House was like. I would feel like a selfish churl or some spoilt petty lord, demanding they change it.”

As they approached the map room – more of an alcove, set aside on a dais and lined with shelves – Erestor paused and fixed him with an amused expression. “My Lord Glorfindel, you _are_ a great Lord of Gondolin, returned from the West by the Valar themselves.” There was no awe in his tone, nor was there any disrespect; only wry but gentle amusement. “They _expect_ you to be a spoilt demanding lord. Everyone is practically falling over themselves to cater to your whims, even if you do not wish it. You might as well take advantage of that to request living quarters that are not at risk of blinding you.”

Without waiting for an answer he went up into the map room, and Glorfindel stared up after him for a moment before following.

“Erestor,” Elrond greeted him warmly. “Thank you for coming. I see you are as prepared as ever.”

Erestor bowed slightly to the two Istari and his Lord. “Well, they _are_ travelling to my homeland.”

Alatar smiled. “Lord Elrond says you travel home, every few years, and that you helped the trade caravans here plot better routes. We were hoping to go over these maps with you, but I see you have brought your own.”

Erestor approached the table, where they were poring over a huge map of Rhovanion and the one decent map of Rhûn in Imladris’ library, and spread out his scrolls – they were smaller, more detailed maps of Rhûn, sized for travelling and with various routes marked upon them.

“I assume you will be taking the High Pass and going through the Greenwood? The Penni, the westernmost Avari, have mingled with the Silvan Elves there, and some of them travel with the trade caravans, though you will have to go beyond the Long Lake to meet the caravans. You could travel on your own, but it is a great distance to cross, with insufficient freshwater sources in the deserts beyond the Iron Hills; it is easier to travel with a caravan that can carry enough water and supplies.” His long forefinger traced a path marked in red on the map, tapping on the small outline of a sea, before he pulled one of his own maps closer and spread it over Elrond’s.

“Once you get beyond the Sea of Rhûn you will come to the Silk Road, here,” he pointed to a major road on the little map, winding through the mountain range that separated Rhûn proper from Rhovanion, with many offshoots and tiny towns marked along it. “Folks here will tell you it is a dangerous journey with bandits and steep paths, but the main road is actually quite secure; so much trade passes on it that the Avarin kings have all stationed guards and watchposts along the road. I find it very safe.”

“And it goes all the way through Rhûn?” questioned Alatar, peering at the map. “Marvellous.”

“It does indeed. Here is the road stretching to the Kinn-lai kingdom, and over here the road to the Kindi, and the Kindi capital of Madurai; that is where I am from. The human settlements and kingdoms, like Chin-xia and Indi, are ranged between and around them. Some say the road stretches back to Kuiwēnen, overlaying the ancient paths our ancestors took away from the lake, but I cannot confirm that; the Hwenti still live there, near the lake and the Wild Wood, but I have not travelled so far East and I have only seen the Orocarni from afar.”

Pallando gazed at the map, delicately tracing the outlines of the Orocarni and the lake with a finger. “It has been long since I saw them, and I did not have a true body at the time,” he said softly. “I wonder how they have changed.”

To know a thing and to have proof of it thrust in your face were vastly different, Erestor reflected; a small shiver went down his spine at the reminder that the beings next to him were not human but had indeed perhaps seen the dawning of the Elves themselves by the shores of Cuiviénen, had perhaps even helped shape Arda. Yet they did not even have that inner light or sense of coiled power that still clung to Glorfindel; to a human they would look merely like a slightly more powerful human, or perhaps like an aged peredhel.

“If I may be so bold – are you bound to these mortal bodies? Why humans?”

“You may be so bold as to ask, but we may not always answer,” Pallando answered, amused.

“We are as mortal as you, that much you may know – we are as vulnerable as you – but we will not age much further nor die of natural cause,” Alatar added. “Elves have long memories; Men less so, and so perhaps are more in need of guidance. We are here to guide all of Ilúvatar’s creations, but we do not want to come to you as great and powerful emissaries of the Valar, fell and terrifyingly beautiful and puissant to look upon, and give orders. The Avari taught us a valuable lesson, and we have tried to take it to heart.”

“I understand. But how then will you stand watch over Middle-Earth?” Elrond enquired.

“When we leave here, we will go forth as Wizards,” answered Pallando. “Powerful mortals, but mortals none the less.”

Erestor looked as though he was chewing on an unpleasant thought. He finally asked, “So then you intend to win the trust of Elves and Men through deception, and thus influence them with whispers and manipulate them to your ends, rather than openly reveal yourselves?”

Glorfindel’s stomach felt as though it had turned to ice. The Istari looked aghast; Pallando’s mien darkened and grew angry, and with it the entire room seemed to grow dim and close. Alatar flung an arm out and squeezed his shoulder, giving him a meaningful look; he calmed, and light seemed to fill the room again. Elrond had paled slightly at this display, and even Erestor took a small step back. He did not back down entirely, however, still facing them and waiting for an answer.

“No. That is not our wish nor our mission,” Alatar finally said softly. “We are here to guide and encourage, Erestor, and to help keep the Shadow at bay. We hope only to _counsel_ the Free Peoples of Arda and offer the relative wisdom of choices as we see them, for we want you to make your own choices and not simply choose what you think the Valar wish. We came to keep an eye on the developments and schemes of Sauron and give warning, and defend you when necessary. To heal and give aid. If we cannot win the trust of the Avari or the Men of the East the blame will lie with us, not them. We hide our true forms and the true extent of our powers because we do not want to cause fear or force unnecessary interference on behalf of the Valar, and we do not seek domination as Sauron has.”

Another long, tense moment of silence passed, before Erestor’s demeanour grew noticeably less stiff. He bowed his head slightly. “Well, that is a good enough answer. Thank you, Alatar; I appreciate your explanation. But I will not apologise for doubting your motives towards my people.”

“That seems just to me; we have been charged to not speak openly of our true identities, but I suppose we owe the Avari more care in our dealings.”

“We do indeed,” Pallando added, inclining his head slightly in a silent apology. Erestor nodded in return. Slowly, Glorfindel felt his breathing return to normal.

* * *

Less than a week after their arrival, Alatar and Pallando were preparing to depart. The meal that morning was no grander than usual – a counsellor had suggested a farewell dinner two days prior at Council, and Faeldis had shot him down – and the two Istari ate well, and accepted a bag of provisions each for the road. Elrond wished them safe travels at breakfast and, since they yet bore no weapons besides their staffs, gifted them with swords and hunting bows.

Erestor made towards the pair as they made ready to leave in the courtyard, but hung back when he saw Glorfindel with them, clasping their arms with his head bowed. Eventually the blond Elf stepped back, and Erestor approached Alatar.

“I have a letter for you that may help. Well, it is not _for_ you – it is for you to deliver, if you wish it.”

She glanced at it curiously, reaching out for it. “Who is it for?”

“My parents. We place great importance on kin, and if a stranger is known to a kinsman and vouched for by them, then they are owed the hospitality that that kinsman would be owed. My parents can then also vouch for you.” He turned to Pallando. “The Kinn-lai have similar practices, but I am afraid I have no such ties to them to call upon.”

Pallando shrugged, the corners of his eyes crinkling pleasantly as he grinned. “I see how it is. Alatar will be snug and comfortable in your family’s home while I wander as a vagabond.”

Alatar only laughed and carefully tucked the letter into her satchel before fixing Erestor with her dark serious gaze. “ _Nandri._”

Erestor bowed his head to them and stepped back as they alighted their horses. “Safe travels.”

Elrond approached them then. “May your paths be safe and smooth. And, whenever you return to the West, Imladris will welcome you.”

“You have been most hospitable, Lord Elrond,” Pallando replied. “Our kin will be coming here soon enough, and it eases my mind to know what a warm welcome awaits them. But I do not think Alatar and I shall pass this way again for a long, long time.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It didn't make it into the fic, but I had vague ideas for each Avari tribe and their rough geography. The Hwenti are basically Nubians, and still live closest to Kuiwēnen/Cuiviénen. Then the Kindi (Indians, specifically South Indians) and then Kinn-lai (Chinese). The Windan went north, and are basically Inuit. The Cuind went south to Harad, and are Arabian/Middle-Eastern. The Penni I am vague about; they are nomadic and do a lot of trade/merchanting and are possibly Romani.


	3. Chapter 3

Spring wore on in Imladris and slowly passed into summer. Glorfindel stepped up as deputy to the former Captain of Imladris, a veteran who was soon only too happy to pass the position to him fully and sail West, and settled into life in a new Age. He learned the rhythm of life in Imladris as its Captain: patrols, communal meals in the House, helping with the harvest where needed, occasional drinks at the little tavern down in the village with his lieutenants, attending performances in the Hall of Fire most nights, Council meetings, and little chats in Elrond’s study. In many ways it was not so different from Gondolin; Elrond even had Turgon’s eyes and something of Idril and Eärendil’s smile, though Glorfindel had never said as much out loud, not wanting Elrond to feel as though he was being seen as a substitute for his long-dead great-grandfather instead of as himself.

He finally took Erestor’s advice, and asked for help stripping the ostentatious decorations from his rooms and entirely redecorating them. Faeldis, who had only just stopped apologising for the marchpane, had begun apologising again for the room not being to his taste, and he awkwardly extracted himself from the conversation and practically fled.

It had been worth it, however, to finally not cringe every time he entered his own rooms. Most of the ornate furnishings, artefacts, and tapestries had been removed, and he had asked for regular furnishings in the Imladrian style, and was trying to gather potted plants to fill his balcony.

“Master Erestor,” he greeted Erestor in the Hall of Fire that evening, while Lindir was still tuning his lute. “I took your advice.”

“I give a great deal of advice, and it is frequently ignored,” Erestor replied, turning to face him and looking up. He inclined his head slightly, but did not rise from his seat. “To what do you refer, my Lord?”

“My rooms,” Glorfindel explained. “The first time we really spoke, you told me to just ask for them to be redone to my liking. I felt guilty for so long, though, for so much work had gone into them, but then I was staying longer and longer here and in my office to avoid it and –” his voice faltered a little as Erestor raised an eyebrow, “ – I thought that was silly and I should have rooms I liked being in.”

“Hardly silly. You are right; you deserve comfortable rooms, instead of living quarters you are forced to avoid. That was the entire point – your comfort – even if they did not know what would make you comfortable. I am glad to hear that has changed.”

He returned his gaze to the musicians at the front, and Glorfindel took the opportunity to surreptitiously observe him. Where most ellyn – and some ellith – wore the current Eriador fashion of fitted doublets over loose shirts and fitted hose, Erestor wore a long loose tunic of dark blue silk over odd loose white trousers; it seemed strange to Glorfindel, but it well suited Erestor, who seemed to wear either his own Kindi garb or the current fashions of Imladris according to his whim for the day – though he usually wore the Eriador fashions and scholar’s robes to Council meetings – and looked good in either.

“May I join you?” he found himself asking. Erestor looked up at him, faintly surprised.

“Of course.” He shifted slightly to make room on the little bench he occupied, gesturing to the space behind him. “I could hardly refuse such a great lord.”

This time it was Glorfindel’s turn to look up in surprise at the words, but as he parsed the tone he realised he was being teased, and laughed. A few Elves turned at the sound, but he ignored them.

“I think you would have no compunction whatsoever in refusing me if you did not care for my company, and so I thank you for yours.” He kept his tone low, for Lindir and the others had just begun to sing.

“Very astute.” Erestor sipped his wine, but Glorfindel thought he could see a small quirk of amusement hidden behind the goblet. When he lowered it, however, his mien was serious.

“I did see the decorations being brought back, for some of them used to be in the library before Faeldis requisitioned them. I had helped redecorate the library so that there would be no sudden gaps, and I helped put everything back. And I was wondering what you would ask for in their stead, but to my knowledge you have not asked for any relics of your past life and have removed them all from your rooms.” He tilted his head slightly, concern in his dark eyes. “Forgive me for asking, but – do those memories pain you? You seem uncomfortable sometimes, when Gondolin is mentioned. Would you prefer that we all stop referring to you as ‘of Gondolin’ altogether, and stop pestering you about it?”

Glorfindel blinked, trying to find a response to something so unexpected. “No – no! Nothing of the sort. It is not painful. But I thank you for your concern. It is just – I had time to come to terms with it all, in the Halls, but in many ways it is also so strange and so changed on these shores. I was sent back here to aid in this Age, and I want to try and look forward, and to be Glorfindel of Imladris, a soldier and captain, not a high lord of Gondolin. I was never comfortable with such ostentation anyway, and in any case that is not what our noble houses actually looked like outside of festival days! But I am not hurt or offended by it.”

Erestor nodded. “I am glad to hear that. I thought it important to ask, still.” Glorfindel’s curiosity must have shown on his face, for Erestor continued, “There is a malady that afflicts a few Elves, those that go through great trauma or grief. One of the farmers down in the Valley is a survivor of the Nirnaeth, and he has taken care to leave his old life behind; if someone addresses him by his old rank just so, or if he is startled by a loud noise or a sudden crowd of Elves, he goes into a state of shock. And there are a few others similarly affected.”

Glorfindel nodded soberly. “I know what you speak of; it was rare in Gondolin before the Nirnaeth, but known to us. But you need not worry on my account. I am not overfond of large open flames and I have lost the taste for roasted red meats, but I am fine otherwise.”

Erestor raised an eyebrow, then pointedly and questioningly glanced around at the large fireplaces around the Hall that gave it its name, in which fires crackled merrily. Glorfindel found himself chuckling. “Oh, those are fine. I can see that they are merely within fireplaces and entirely contained.”

As the song came to an end, Lindir sent a very pointed glare in their direction, and both Elves subsided abashedly.

Glorfindel listened attentively for a while, for Lindir’s voice was beautiful, the lute and the drums accentuating his song about the hunt for a black fox. As he slipped into another song however, some catchy human ditty about tossing coins to a wandering Ranger, Glorfindel found his attention wandering. His gaze slipped to the Elf beside him, as it so often did during Council meetings, their only real regular interaction. It was not entirely due to his appearance, though that certainly played a small part; no, there was something else that Glorfindel was beginning to find intriguing about the other Elf’s unyielding quality and blunt observations.

Erestor was watching Lindir with half-lidded eyes, a small curve to his lips as he tapped his foot in time to the music. His curly hair was partially coiled in a tight bun, the rest spilling over his shoulders, and the firelight glinted off his gold earrings and the gold embroidery around his high collar. As he raised his goblet for a drink, Glorfindel saw that he wore a thick gold bangle on each wrist. The Noldor tended to favour more delicate styles of jewellery, at least at the moment, but like everything else Erestor wore, it suited him. In the firelight his skin was the rich dark colour of earth, and the gold only accentuated it. He looked calm and relaxed, where in Council he tended to look annoyed or privately amused.

Eöl and Maeglin had been dark, too, though not as dark as Erestor, and while Turgon would brook no insult to his nephew in the court, Glorfindel had heard the whispers in the rest of Gondolin about the Dark Elves. He had never taken part in them, or treated Maeglin any differently, but nor had he put a stop to other Elves’ whispers, and that was something that he would always regret. As far as he could tell, Erestor’s reputation for harshness in Imladris stemmed from his refusal to let such things slide. 

He had also spent some time recuperating in Lórien’s gardens, after leaving the Halls, and spoken long with Nienna; he thought he knew a little more, now, about how being scorned and Othered all one’s long life could give rise to pain and bitterness, though probably not as well as the Avari themselves.

An hour or two later, the last song was sung and Lindir bowed. Elves began getting up from their seats and milling around, slipping into general, comfortable conversations and setting up board or dice games. Morfinnel, Glorfindel’s second-in-command, waved invitingly from where she and the other lieutenants, Caragnîn and Bregolon, were rolling dice; Glorfindel smiled in return, but shook his head. He often spent this time with them, but for now he wanted to get to know this Elf a little better. Erestor was one of the very few Elves who hadn’t already tried to befriend him, and there was something about his no-nonsense demeanour that was reminiscent of Ecthelion in court, and something else that was entirely, uniquely Erestor.

He found himself at a loss as to _how_ to prolong the conversation, however. In his mind’s eye, Ecthelion laughed at him.

Erestor stood, placing his goblet on a side table and smoothing out his clothing in elegant motions, and Glorfindel cast about himself for something to say.

He gestured to one of the board games on another side table, set up like a little battlefield. “I do not know that game. If it is a game, and not something left over from planning a war?”

Erestor glanced at it. “Elves in the West call it[ _oetheg_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chess). Though it came from the Kindi, originally; we call it _chaturangam_ , which means ‘square war’.”

Glorfindel approached the little board, his interest genuinely piqued. “A war game? Like[ _arphalath_](http://tafl.cyningstan.com/page/20/a-rule-book-for-hnefatafl)?”

“Yes, though in some ways this is easier, since you only play along the one axis and it is easier to capture opposing pieces, and in some ways it is more complex, as the different pieces move in different ways.”

He picked up a delicately carved little mounted soldier, admiring the detail, before looking up at Erestor. “Would you be willing to teach me how to play, good Master Erestor?”

Erestor seemed to be weighing him up for a moment; he must have passed muster, for the darker Elf nodded. “Very well, my Lord.”

“Please,” Glorfindel added as they took their seats at the little gaming table, on either side of the board. “Call me Glorfindel.”

Erestor glanced up, surprised, from where he was rotating the board to place the white pieces on his own side. “Well then, Glorfindel, call me Erestor. Now, I am taking the white pieces for now since white goes first, and it may be easier for you to observe my moves…”

* * *

It became a routine. Glorfindel generally spent more time in the Hall of Fire than Erestor did, but whenever Erestor did make an appearance, he could count on the golden Elf seeking him out; they sat together to enjoy the performance, and then they played a game. Most times it was _chaturangam_ , for Glorfindel had picked the game up swiftly and proved to have an adept strategical mind to rival Erestor’s own.

“Excellent move, but now my chariot can check your king.” He moved the tiny piece with a soft _click_.

Glorfindel looked up curiously. “Chariot?”

Erestor shook himself. “My apologies – I meant the siege tower. In the original version, the Kindi version, it is a war chariot.”

“And you grew up with that version?”

“Yes.”

Glorfindel looked at the little carved siege-tower, trying to picture a chariot in its place; they had been in fashion for leisure rides back in Valinor when the world was young, but had since fallen out of fashion, for the Noldor had not used them in warfare. “I thought Imladris was strange and new, when I first arrived, but it must have been even more so for you.”

“A little.” Erestor busied himself with setting all the pieces back on their starting squares. “Though the changes were gradual in some ways. I came here with the caravans, travelling through the various kingdoms on the Silk Road and the outposts of the Dwarves, and then I travelled through the Greenwood with the Penni merchants. So it was quite a nice little westward progression, really.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, some time after your War of Wrath. I studied and lived in Lindon for a time, before accompanying Elrond here.”

“You were here when Imladris was built, then?”

Instead of responding immediately, Erestor leaned back in his chair and pointed up at the little arch over the entrance to the nook they sat in. Glorfindel had before noticed the unique architecture in Imladris, which seemed to be a blend of different styles that still somehow came together gracefully and beautifully, and he had admired the strange archways in the Hall of Fire, with their curves coming to a point where a keystone would be.

“These are common back home,” Erestor said lightly. “I helped design some aspects of this place. I did like Lindon, but it was very alien in some ways. I thought adding elements like these would make me feel more at home.”

“Have they not?” Glorfindel enquired just as softly.

Erestor’s smile was a small wry thing, his gaze still on the arch. “I suppose they have, in the sense that Imladris itself has become a home. Even with touches like these, it is still too different from Madurai for me to ever confuse them.”

Glorfindel watched his face, and tried to imagine leaving Gondolin while it yet stood to travel across Middle-Earth and create a new life alone.

“Why did you leave?”

Erestor’s gaze snapped back to him, and Glorfindel again felt like he was being measured up. Erestor wore a strange mixture of garb today; a fitted doublet of dark green linen hugged his slender torso, leaving his loose snow-white shirtsleeves visible. Over this, though, he wore a sort of wrap of dark red brocade; the trailing end was draped over his left shoulder and the body of it crossed his torso, contrasting pleasantly with the dark green as it wrapped around his back and to his left hip, where the other end appeared to be tucked in under his doublet. It lent a sort of androgyny to his figure that Glorfindel had been finding rather distracting.

“Curiosity,” Erestor finally said. “I am a scholar, and I wanted knowledge I could not get back home. I wanted to see the world. I was drawn to what little I did know of the history of this part of the world, and found it fascinating. And so I have lived, studied and worked here for several centuries now, though I go home for a visit every decade or so when I can.”

“I am glad you still go home. It must have taken tremendous strength to leave on your own. When will you next leave, do you think?”

A small smirk appeared on Erestor’s face. “Eager to be rid of me?”

“No!” Though he knew Erestor was teasing, Glorfindel found he did not want to joke about this. “No, but it sounds like you love your home, and I am glad you can still go and see it. I have embraced Imladris as my home; I told you once that I wanted to be Glorfindel of Imladris now, not a lord of Gondolin, and I meant it. But… sometimes I wish I could walk those white streets one last time, and see Ecthelion and Egalmoth and Turgon and Idril.”

Feeling helpless in the face of such a sad expression on that normally cheerful countenance, Erestor quietly reached over and squeezed Glorfindel’s hand softly. “I am sorry.” It felt so inadequate, in the face of such monumental loss.

“Thank you.” He looked down at their hands, as if confused; Erestor quickly drew his back, gently tugging the carved _chaturangam_ piece from Glorfindel’s fingers on the way, and busied himself with placing it just so on the board.

“Another game? Or shall we try[ _glennad_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Senet) instead as a palate-cleanser?”

Glorfindel took a deep breath, and then he was himself again; he smiled at Erestor, who tried not to think too hard about his own reaction to that smile. “ _Glennad_ , I think, and then I must be off to bed; I have patrol in the morning.”

“Very well.” As he packed the _chaturangam_ pieces away, Glorfindel already fetching the rectangular wooden _glennad_ box, Erestor reflected that, for all his supposed strength in leaving a home he could return to whenever he pleased, he would not have been able to cope half so well with circumstances like Glorfindel’s and still be so quick to smile.

He had seen Glorfindel on the training field; the golden Elf moved like a whirlwind when he wanted to, swift and graceful and dangerous, and there was no denying that he would be an incredible asset to any battle. But Erestor was a student of Noldorin history, and he knew that according to the lore, Glorfindel would have been outmatched by other prominent Eldar of the First Age; Fingolfin or Fingon or even Ecthelion might be preferable on the battlefield. Why, then, would the Valar choose to resurrect and send back Glorfindel?

What was going to happen in this Age, that what they needed most – in the Valar’s estimation – was goodness and light?

Glorfindel rolled the dice-sticks in his hand and let them fall, a huge gleeful grin breaking out as they fell all dark-sides up, letting him move six spaces and roll again.

“Would you say that I am on a _roll_ , Erestor?”

Erestor picked up one of his pieces and threw it directly at Glorfindel’s nose; the other Elf caught it in mid-air, laughing, and Erestor found himself huffing in laughter as well. “You are a menace. I wonder that you were allowed out of Mandos.”

“Perhaps I was kicked out.” He winked, and Erestor’s stomach did an entirely inconvenient flip.

Or perhaps the Valar just wanted to torment one particular Avari. That was seeming more and more likely.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Generally I refer to chess as _oetheg_ in fics. For the purposes of this particular fic, however, I thought it would be meaningful for Glorfindel to start thinking of it the way Erestor did, with the original Kindi name.


	4. Chapter 4

The long warm days of summer began taking on a crisp chill as autumn approached. Erestor had always liked this time, as much as he disliked the chill; the warm red tones of the trees around Imladris suited it best in his opinion, and he liked helping with the harvest and the preparations for winter. There was a sort of camaraderie in the shared bustle around the Valley, similar to the harvest season back home, and he liked how familiar it was.

Normally he liked his friends, too, but at the moment, as they carried baskets of produce to the House, he was contemplating pushing Isteth and Melpomaen into the Bruinen.

“Erestor, the _only_ other people he spends so much time with are Morfinnel and the other lieutenants, and they are all betrothed or married.”

He fixed Isteth with an unimpressed look. “I spend time with _you_ , and though neither of us is spoken for, we would never wed each other. This is juvenile.”

“Isteth and I do not look at you like he does, however!” Melpomaen nudged him. Erestor thought wistfully of the days when Melpomaen had been too shy to speak more than two words to anyone. _This is what I get for mentoring him._

“You are imagining things. That, or he simply has not seen another Avari since Maeglin and is curious.”

Melpomaen fixed Erestor with a serious look. “If you truly thought that, you would not have let him befriend you. You value yourself too highly to let him treat you as a mere curiosity. Besides, I have had to sit through games with the two of you and I have seen how he looks at you.”

“Hush! He is coming!” Isteth cried, and then she and Melpomaen exchanged looks and began to move away as quickly as they could with their loads.

“Come _back_ here, you misbegotten – ” Erestor paused, feeling a familiar presence at his back.

“Is everything alright?” Glorfindel was smiling down at him. Next to him, Morfinnel was glancing between them with a small smirk.

“I am in the market for new friends, with some sense,” Erestor muttered. “Are you not training today?”

“No, I gave everyone the afternoon off to help as well.” He gestured towards Erestor’s basket. “May I help you with that?”

“I can carry it myself, thank you.”

There was a small pause, broken by Morfinnel exclaiming, “I forgot, Glorfindel, I told Lindir I would meet him for – things. A song. He wants me to hear a song. I will see you later.” She dashed off, to Glorfindel’s clear confusion.

Erestor sighed. “It is contagious.”

When Glorfindel glanced at him again, there was a light flush to his fair cheeks. “I think I too need new friends. In the meantime, may I walk with you, at least?”

Erestor shrugged, and they walked in a companionable silence up to the House. At the back entrance to the kitchens and cellars, they stopped and Erestor put down his load of root vegetables; there were other Elves there tallying things up, supervised by Faeldis as she took notes. She looked up at them and smiled pleasantly; Erestor only nodded in return, turning away.

When they were well on their way back to the fields, the strains of harvest songs floating up to them, Glorfindel cleared his throat. “Were you planning on attending the Hall of Fire tonight?”

“Not particularly, though I suppose I could make an appearance if you desperately wanted a game.” It took effort to maintain his usual calm tone. Despite everything he had said to his smirking friends, Erestor was fully aware of just how beautiful Glorfindel was. Today, his gleaming hair fell unbound over his shoulders, save for a small braid down one side with a tiny wildflower woven in, and his eyes were as blue as the clear autumn sky overhead. Like many of the warriors, he often forwent the fashionable fitted doublet in favour of a simpler shirt during the day, and this one gaped slightly at the neck in a most distracting manner.

It was more than just his appearance, though – after all, most Elves were in Erestor’s estimation blandly beautiful. Glorfindel, however, was unfailingly kind to everyone and always so _sincere_.

He was sincere now, looking unaccountably nervous. “I thought that we might perhaps retire to my rooms and play _chaturangam_ there instead? Caragnîn lent me her set, and I have wine.”

Erestor stared at him for a moment, during which Glorfindel grew more nervous. “Yes, I suppose so,” he finally said. “May I ask why?”

Glorfindel shrugged. “I find I am uncomfortable with all those eyes on us.”

“Fair enough. I can bring my own set, if you would like to see the original pieces,” Erestor offered, and Glorfindel’s eyes lit up.

“I would love that.”

* * *

Glorfindel’s rooms were, indeed, much changed. Erestor looked around, admiring the light wooden furnishings and comfortable-looking, over-stuffed chairs. Most notable, though, were the plants; it looked like the profusion of greenery had originally been centred on the balcony, but now they spilled over into the sitting-room, with potted plants all over the place where they would catch the most light and a planter on a side-table. The air smelt of their crisp freshness with that particular autumn tang, which went well with the general air of cosiness; Erestor paused and turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. Of all the Elves, the Avari had the closest bond with nature, with animals and green growing things, and while Erestor himself had never felt moved to garden or farm, he could feel that these plants were loved and well-cared-for. It lent the whole room a sort of golden warmth he could feel in his bones.

He could still see the little marks, here and there, where the rayed suns and celandines had been affixed before being removed. In place of the old tapestries hung a few sketches and paintings from Imladris artisans, mostly showing the Valley and its flora, and other crafts and hangings from the markets, and a bookshelf that was slowly filling up. In the last light of sunset, the whole effect was soft and warm and inviting.

“I like it. It suits you.”

“I am glad it meets with your approval,” Glorfindel grinned. “This is actually closer to what my House looked like of old, and I am far more comfortable here now with the plants and with simpler furniture.”

Erestor approached a small, very old-looking banner hung on one wall; a pane of clear glass had been mounted over it, for it looked so fragile that he would have feared to breathe on it. It was made of white silk, frayed around the edges now and spotted with age, and in the centre was splendid embroidery depicting Taniquetil, skilfully worked in fine silver thread. The mountain rose from a field of lush golden blossoms done with thin golden ribbons, and around the edge of the banner was a beautiful, intricate border of blossoms and curving geometric designs in gold thread. Despite its clear antiquity, there was still a certain lustre about the silk and embroidery that he could barely look away from.

“I have never seen anything like this before,” he said wonderingly.

Glorfindel came up behind him, his fingertips barely skimming the glass. “I like to think of myself as one unconcerned with wealth and possessions, but this… this is one of my treasures, and I am grateful beyond words that it survived.”

“It is from Gondolin?”

The taller Elf laughed softly. “Nay, it is from Valinor. It was the custom among Vanyar mothers then, when their children grew and went to found their own households, to make the first thing of beauty to adorn those new walls. My mother wrought this for me, long ago, and I kept it safe through all; the Kinslaying, the Helcaraxë, Vinyamar, and Gondolin. I thought it was lost. But a few of the refugees had grabbed more than simple provisions, when they fled. The steward of my House had taken this with her, when she left, hoping to find me and return it to me; she has long since sailed West, but her son still dwells in the Havens, and he had loaned this to a museum there. When he heard I had returned, he got it back and returned it to me.”

“It is beautiful,” Erestor finally said, though he felt that any praise would be inadequate in the face of such a provenance. “She is a very skilled broiderer.”

“She and my father still dwell there. I thought I might return to them, when Mandos released me, but my duty to these shores was not yet done.”

Erestor looked up at him then, brows furrowed. “Were you even given a choice in the matter?”

“The Valar did ask me if I would agree to this task. I said yes.” Glorfindel shrugged, his gaze still faraway.

Erestor scoffed. “Forgive me, but the _Valar_ ‘asked’ you if you would agree to a task? Which of the Light-Elves would feel that they could refuse in such a situation? That is hardly a true choice.”

Glorfindel’s first instinct was to speak in heated defence of the Valar; of all the Eldar, after all, the Vanyar loved them best. But he paused, remembering the Avari’s history.

“That is a fair point. But I am Vanyarin, Erestor. We trust and love the Valar, and I am glad to do their bidding. I was honoured by their choice.”

In Erestor’s experience, from many others in Imladris such a statement came with other implications – **_we_** _trust the Valar, unlike you Avari_ – but there was no such emphasis in Glorfindel’s voice, nor censure; only a calm reminder. After a long moment, Erestor sighed, his shoulders stiff but slowly losing tension. “Very well. If I demand respect for the ways of the Avari, I must respect your ways as well. I am sorry.”

“All is forgiven.” Glorfindel cupped his elbow lightly, steering him towards the table and chairs set up by the fire. “Shall we?”

*


	5. Chapter 5

A few days later, Erestor was in his office, gathering scrolls for a Council meeting in a few minutes. He looked up at a knock on the open door.

“Glorfindel? Come in.”

The blond Elf entered, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet and looking very cheerful. Erestor raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“Elrond will probably announce this at the Council meeting, but I wanted to tell you first – the rest of the Istari will be coming soon.” Glorfindel’s eyes glittered with excitement. “I spent some time with one of them, Olórin, in Valinor, when we were both learning from the Lady Nienna, and he will be coming here with two others.”

“Like Alatar and Pallando?” Erestor had thought more time would pass before the rest of the Istari arrived; unease curled in his stomach at the seeming urgency of the Valar.

“Yes, though they will not be going East.”

“I am glad you will be able to see your friend again. And this time, I think, Imladris will rein itself in.”

Glorfindel snorted with laughter. “I hope so! Though Curumo, I think, may have appreciated all that fuss, I would still caution against it for Olórin and Aiwendil.”

He sobered as Erestor straightened with the scrolls in his arms, ready to go. “May I escort you to Council?” he asked carefully.

He was met with a bemused and slightly suspicious expression. “I know the way better than you, I should think,” Erestor replied. “But we can walk together.”

Holding back a sigh, Glorfindel trailed behind him to Council.

As he had guessed, Elrond, too, had received an urgent missive from Círdan.

“Before we start the agenda, I have an urgent letter to discuss,” the Peredhel began. “You will recall the Istari we hosted recently. The Valar have sent three more, and they have landed at Mithlond. They will be here in a week or so.”

This time the reaction was a lot more restrained, though still excited. “Is this all of them, or will there be more?” Boridhren questioned.

“This is all of them. There are only five Istari,” Glorfindel interjected helpfully. “Alatar and Pallando arrived first, for they had the furthest to travel, but with this group now comes their leader, Curumo.”

Elrond nodded at him. “Will they also be moving on soon?”

“Yes.”

Faeldis leaned across the table slightly. “My Lord Glorfindel,” she began. “If you would be so kind as to let us consult with you – how best may we make them comfortable?”

A few seats down, he saw Erestor duck his head slightly, exchanging surreptitious looks with Isteth, and had to bite back a smile. Focusing again on Faeldis, he replied, “They are not demanding, and indeed their aim in Middle-Earth is to be discreet. I would recommend much less pomp than the ceremony you greeted us with.” He tried to smile kindly and soften his words, but Faeldis still looked embarrassed.

“Very well. No feast, then. We will prepare the rooms Alatar and Pallando used, but we will redo them to match the rest of Imladris. Luxurious, but not _quite_ so grand. Would that suit, do you think, my Lord?”

 _Which is what I was recommending the first time around_ , Erestor thought, unable to refrain from rolling his eyes. “You do not need to only choose between two extremes, Faeldis – let us formally welcome them and put a little more effort into dinner, without throwing a full feast in their honour,” he said out loud. “Something like the dinners we have when his Majesty visits: not the welcome or farewell feasts, but the dinners in between.”

With his gaze still on her face, Glorfindel caught the brief look of annoyance that flashed swiftly across Faeldis’ face before she fixed Erestor with her usual pleasant smile. “Always the critic, Erestor. I have no wish to repeat our past mistakes or cause our guests discomfort.”

“I do not think this will cause them discomfort. I simply wish to strike a balance between showing them respect and not smothering them in pomp and grandeur.”

Large blue eyes fluttered in surprise which seemed, to Erestor, exaggerated. “Well,” Faeldis smiled, “I am glad to see that you want to show them respect! But –”

“And what, exactly, do you mean by that?” Erestor interrupted coldly.

“Nothing! Really, Erestor, you are very quick to see offence where none is intended. I am glad for your contribution and your suggestion of how we may show them we respect them and are glad they have come, and that is all.”

Elrond cleared his throat then, and everyone looked to him. “I agree with Erestor. Faeldis, appoint someone to oversee those preparations.”

“Yes, my Lord,” she demurred.

“Melpomaen, what is next on the agenda?”

Melpomaen finished making note of the decision and scrambled to check his papers. “Closing reports from the trade markets from Malthorn.”

“Very well. Malthorn?” Elrond gestured to the treasury overseer to begin speaking. As the meeting continued, Glorfindel watched a frustrated-looking Erestor and wondered if it was always like this for him. 

* * *

Once again, the household of Imladris gathered to welcome their honoured guests. From what Erestor could gather, many other Elves shared his concerns, and were worrying about whether this meant they could expect some new foulness from Sauron. It had only been a few centuries since the war with Sauron, and the news that came from the Númenorean outposts was not particularly reassuring either. Having so many emissaries from the Valar amongst them was comforting, but also worrisome.

Still, many also drew hope from Glorfindel. And Erestor could not say he blamed them; his gaze kept being drawn to Glorfindel, standing tall and strong next to Elrond and gleaming in ceremonial armour, looking every inch the reborn hero.

Scouts from the entrance rode in, escorting the three Istari, and Erestor craned his neck.

Like Alatar and Pallando, these Istari looked like bent and aged Men, though unlike them these three were fair, resembling the Men of the West. Their head was dressed all in white robes, with long white hair and beard, upon a white horse, and seemed as cold and distant as a marble spire. Behind him on a grey horse rode someone Erestor instinctively knew was Olórin, from what Glorfindel had said; his robes and hair and beard were all grey and there was a sense of kindness and merriment to his face that the other – Curumo – lacked. Bringing up the rear on a brown horse, then, must be Aiwendil; he had a much shorter brown beard and softly curling grey-brown hair to go with his brown robes, and looked younger and strangely distracted, peering around at the gardens. All three carried carved wooden staffs.

They rode up to the House and dismounted gracefully, Curumo looking down his long pointed nose at Elrond. The Half-Elf bowed slightly, his right hand over his heart.

“Welcome to Imladris, emissaries of the Valar; your arrival fills us with much joy.”

Curumo nodded to Elrond; behind him, Olórin winked at Glorfindel.

“Well met, son of Eärendil. I am Curunír the White, leader of the Istari; this is Mithrandir the Grey, and Rhavandil the Brown.”

His mild surprise at these new Sindarin names was interrupted.

“Finally, some _proper_ -looking folk! Here to guide _us_ , instead of those forsaken peoples to the East!”

Erestor spun around as he heard the mutter, and met the gaze of a burly smith who worked down at the forges in the village; the smith only glared, defiantly and slightly contemptuously, at him. He returned the other Elf’s stare, steadily, until the smith dropped his gaze, and then turned back, seething furiously. There were other indistinct mutterings coming from the other Elves behind him, however, and some of it ran along similar lines; he could not see where it all originated, though he recognised a few voices.

“… like _us_ …”

“… those Dark Elves and Men…”

“… _we_ deserve this more than they…”

“… those other two…”

Next to him, Isteth was glaring furiously at the Elves behind them even as she squeezed his hand. He did not even realise that the greetings were over or that he was shaking in rage until Glorfindel approached him.

“Erestor, what is wrong?”

“Some of the villagers were making their thoughts on Avari, and Istari who look like Avari, clear,” Isteth answered for him, still furious, and Glorfindel blanched.

“I am so sorry, Erestor.”

“Not just villagers,” Erestor replied. “I – oh.”

Behind Glorfindel stood Olórin – no, Mithrandir, curiosity on his face and wisdom and empathy in his gaze.

“I gather Alatar and Pallando left an impression,” he said, in a voice both gruff and merry. “You must be Erestor.”

Erestor pulled himself together, straightening. “Yes. Well met, Mithrandir. Glorfindel has mentioned you.”

“Hm.” Mithrandir studied him; it was difficult to tell if that bright blue gaze found him wanting or not, until he broke into a small smile. “I must speak to Elrond with the rest of my order, but I will see you all later, and hear what Glorfindel has been up to.”

As he nodded to them all and left, Isteth turned. “Do not let them trouble you, Erestor. They do not know any better.”

“They do.” Erestor sounded very tired and frustrated. “It was not all just Elves from the village and the farms down the Valley; there were several of the House staff, including some scribes. Elves who have known me and worked with me. They most certainly know better.”

With a soft sigh, Isteth nodded. “You will be supervising the scribes tomorrow. Do you want to say anything to them?”

“I will set them to studying one of my Avarin history translations, I think.”

Glorfindel was still trying to wrap his head around Elves being willing to say such things so openly. “Does this happen often?”

“Oh, you should have heard what people said when I first came to Lindon.” Erestor’s mouth twisted wryly, though there was something hard in his gaze. “They asked me outright why I had come, and I could not raise a single criticism of anything without being told to go back to Rhûn if I disliked them so much. Or that I looked well in court garb but it was a pity I was so dark. Or even general surprise that I could read and write and wear clothing and use cutlery. I thought it had mostly died down, or that they would at least not say things so openly as I rose to join the Council. But I suppose they resent too much the fact that the first emissaries of the Valar went East, instead of staying here to tend to them.”

“I…” Glorfindel’s shoulders slumped. “I would react most harshly if any of my soldiers said anything of the sort, if that helps.”

Erestor’s stony gaze softened. “I believe you.”

*


	6. Chapter 6

Midwinter approached, with snow softly blanketing the Valley of Imladris and the Bruinen freezing over.

“Even the winters here are less harsh than in Gondolin,” Glorfindel remarked, gazing out of the window to the soft snowfall. “It is pleasantly cold and perfectly bearable, where in Gondolin we were often frozen to the bone on night watches.”

Erestor, who was tightly bundled up in warm wool robes despite their seat near one of the fireplaces, gave him a rather incredulous look. “I would _not_ have enjoyed it.”

“It is much warmer in Madurai, is it not?”

Erestor snuggled down into the cocoon of his robes. “We do not even have winter. Not like this. Back home this would be the rainy season. It is slightly cooler than the dry summer months, but nothing like this. And our summers are far hotter than yours.”

Glorfindel moved a soldier on the board and tried to imagine such heat. “I do not know if I could stand such heat.”

“Planning to travel to Rhûn?”

“No – at least, not soon! But I think I might like to see it some day. You speak of your home with such love.”

Erestor looked down at the board, though the gesture did not hide his small smile. “Well, it is my home. You speak similarly of Gondolin.”

They were quiet for a few moments, making their moves on the _oetheg_ board. Across the room, Morfinnel caught Glorfindel’s eye and made a very emphatic series of gestures, ending in her fist meeting her palm with some force; he flushed slightly, then returned his attention to Erestor. Tentatively, he reached across the board to take hold of Erestor’s hand.

“What –” Erestor began, but Glorfindel cut him off.

“Come to tomorrow’s feast with me?”

Erestor stared at him, confused. “Alright? I always attend feasts.”

“No, I mean – come with _me_.”

Those dark eyes remained confused for a long moment, before they were lit by realisation and a slow, dawning joy. “Just to be clear, Glorfindel,” he began, clearly fighting a smile, “Are you seeking to court me?”

Glorfindel huffed out a laugh. “I have been trying to do so for _months_.” It was hard to tell, given how dark Erestor’s complexion was, but he thought he could see a flush in those cheeks. Of all the expressions he had seen on Erestor’s face, bashfulness was new, and he found it very endearing.

“Very well,” Erestor said, finally breaking into a smile. “I will accompany you tomorrow.”

* * *

It still felt surreal, a day later, as Erestor dressed more carefully than usual for the night. It felt silly, donning a rich silk tunic when he was going to wear a heavy wool coat over everything anyway, but he supposed some silliness was excusable. In the privacy of his rooms, he allowed himself to think again of how Glorfindel had looked when asking him to the feast, and smiled to himself.

At home, he would have twined jasmine blossoms into his oiled hair. Here, he made do with snowdrop blossoms, which at least looked vaguely similar even if they did not carry the same heady scent.

As he looked in the mirror, he could not help but remember some of the less kind things he had heard over the years, and compare himself to the Elves he now lived with. His nose was far more prominent, his eyes darker, his hair curlier, and his skin far darker than what would be considered beautiful in Eriador. But while he had dwelt here for centuries, he had grown up in the heart of the Kindi homeland; he closed his eyes, remembering the Kindi’s own pride in their dark skin and how it soaked in the sunlight that bathed their lands. When he opened them, the Elf that watched him in the mirror seemed far lovelier.

There was a knock on the door, and he slipped out through the tiny sitting-room and opened it. Glorfindel was waiting for him, looking resplendent in a dark blue wool doublet with fitted sleeves that were slashed at the shoulder and elbow, allowing his puffy white shirt to peek through.

Shyness was not an emotion Erestor was accustomed to, and yet he could not make himself offer anything more than a soft, “Hello.”

Glorfindel’s smile was like the sun. “Hello, Erestor. You look beautiful.”

Erestor ducked his head for a moment, then took a deep breath and straightened. “Thank you. You look lovely as well.”

There was a hint of shyness in Glorfindel’s smile as well, as he held out an arm. “Shall we go?”

Erestor took his arm, and tried not to think too hard about how firmly muscled it was.

As they walked to the Hall of Fire together, Erestor noticed that tiny golden flowers were stitched around the collar in ribbon with even tinier gold thread flourishes surrounding them, in a similar style to the Vanyarin banner in Glorfindel’s rooms, if perhaps a little clumsier in handiwork. “Your collar, Glorfindel – that is the Vanyarin style, is it not? Did you do those yourself, or find a tailor who could do it?”

Glorfindel ducked his head almost shyly for a moment. “I thought I would try embroidering for myself, as my mother does. She, however, had a long time to perfect her craft; I mostly stabbed my own fingers a lot, and would have given up, but undoing what I had done only left holes in the cloth down one side, and I realised I would have to finish it.”

Erestor could not help but laugh softly at the picture Glorfindel painted. “You underestimate your own skill. It is lovely, Glorfindel. Perhaps not quite as skilfully done as your mother’s work, but as you say, that will come in time. For a first attempt this is most respectable! And it suits you very well.”

They reached the Hall of Fire and entered through a side door, joining the Elves of Imladris where they were amassed around the largest fireplace. The hall was dim and lit only by a few candles, for all the other fireplaces were dark and a few small embers, the remnants of the last log in the main fireplace, glowed valiantly but futilely. To the side, Lindir led the musicians in a slow drum-beat.

The main doors opened and Elrond appeared, bearing a large chunk of log in his arms. As he approached the fireplace, the drum-beat quickened and bells were shaken.

He knelt before the fireplace, carefully lighting the fresh log with the last remnants of the old one, and then tending and feeding the fire until it rose and crackled merrily. Then he stood as the assembled Elves let out a cheer.

“A fresh log has been drawn and lit, and our flame still burns this winter. Let us feast!”

They filed into the nearby feast-hall, festooned with holly and mistletoe and other evergreens as well as candles and ribbons, and the cooks began to bring out fresh bread and cheese and nuts, platters of roasted root vegetables and fragrant spiced pastries, and tureens of hearty stews. In pride of place, supported by three Elves on a gigantic platter, was a huge roast boar, with herbs and winter berries.

As Glorfindel’s companion, Erestor was seated next to him at the high table; on Glorfindel’s other side sat Elrond, at the head of the table. While the food was being served, Elrond studied them both and smiled broadly.

“On behalf of everyone who has had to watch you in your corner of the Hall of Fire for months, I thank you most heartily for finally deciding to court.”

Erestor was torn between amusement and indignation, but Glorfindel only laughed and said, “Thank you, Elrond. I must complain of gross insubordination, however; my second-in-command threatened to punch me if I did not find my courage soon.”

“And it is exactly that sort of excellent strategizing that has helped her reach such a position,” Elrond replied, eyes twinkling. He looked at Erestor then and added more seriously, “I am truly happy for both of you.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

When the feast was drawing to an end and Erestor was contemplating whether or not he could manage another honey-cake or apple tart, Elrond stood, raising his goblet in a toast. “To Imladris, and to our light!”

When the toasts were drunk, Elrond remained standing. “My friends, we have much to celebrate. As you may already know, the[ Yestarë](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Yestar%C3%AB) after this coming one will herald the two thousandth year of this Age – two thousand years since Morgoth was vanquished, and Beleriand fell; two thousand years since Lindon was founded. And some centuries of peace in this valley.”

A great cheer went up around the hall. Smiling, Elrond waited until it had died down before continuing, “As such, there will be a great celebration next Yestarë to mark it. There will be a costumed ball, of which Lady Faeldis will release details this coming Yestarë, and a feast.”

More cheers and applause followed as he seated himself.

“A costume ball!” Glorfindel exclaimed. “That is exciting, is it not? We had one in Gondolin once; everyone came dressed as animals, with masks. The floor was covered in fur and feathers by the end of the night.”

Erestor cast a glance down the table at Faeldis, seated on Elrond’s other side and beaming. “I do not feel comfortable with this.”

“With a costume ball? Whyever not?”

“I worry about what the Noldor consider costumes. Perhaps I am overreacting. Let us wait until Yestarë and hear what Faeldis has to say.”

He sipped at his wine and tried to put it from his mind.

* * *

On [Mettarë](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Mettar%C3%AB) evening, the Elves gathered in the gardens around a bonfire, sitting on trestle benches and sipping mulled wine. Children skipped and danced around the fire, their hands and faces sticky with hazelnut fritters; their parents would soon put the younger ones to bed, but everyone else waited together to welcome the first dawn of the new year.

As the Moon rose and hymns to Elbereth were sung, it struck Erestor that his companion had seen the very first moonrise and sunrise, millennia ago, and he felt very young. Back in Madurai there were still elders who remembered the time before the Sun and Moon, but they lived in the palace or in seclusion, and he would never have been able to speak to them about this. He turned; Glorfindel was watching the sky with a small smile, the silver moonlight turning his hair to mithril.

“What was it like, the first time you saw it?” he murmured.

Glorfindel _hmm_ ed for a moment. “Terrifying, to be honest. We had no idea what it was, and we were split; some thought it was a sign from the Valar, and some that it was some new devilry of Morgoth’s. But then Fingolfin reminded everyone how like it was to the flowers of Telperion. I think I only truly relaxed after the Sun rose, however; it felt more comforting somehow.”

“Arien’s light does flatter you.”

Even in the moonlight, he could see Glorfindel’s cheeks flush, and despite the chill he felt warm.

* * *

After greeting the Yestarë sunrise, most of Imladris rested before the evening’s celebrations. A hushed silence clung to the Valley, but it was the crisp, calm silence of deep rest before the spring thaw.

When everyone was seated for dinner and they had begun bringing out bread and herbed stuffed eggs, Faeldis rose. Erestor remembered the imminent announcement and frowned, wondering when the proposal had been passed, for it had not come up at Council meetings.

“Elves of Imladris, in a year hence we shall be celebrating the two thousandth year of this Age. Our world shrank with the loss of Beleriand, and again when we lost Eregion, but it has also expanded, with closer ties to our fellow Elven realms and with increased trade with Harad to the South and Rhûn to the East.” She paused to smile pleasantly at Erestor. “Lindon thrives. Imladris thrives. When we welcomed Lord Glorfindel to Imladris we celebrated the glories of the First Age; now we shall celebrate the luxuries of the Second Age! Dress in a manner that reflects this; wear your grandest Lindon or Laurelindórenan fashions, or your finest Rhûn silks and Harad jewels and Númenorean headdresses! Embrace the Sindarin fashions of the Greenwood, or commemorate the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and their unique style. It shall be a Yestarë to remember.”

Excited murmurs and applause broke out across the hall as she bowed and sat back down. Erestor, however, was trembling slightly; Glorfindel turned to him, concerned, and reared back slightly in his seat at the other’s expression.

“I thought you said this was to be a costume ball, Faeldis,” Elrond murmured, looking deeply uncomfortable.

Faeldis only blinked at him, confused. “But it is. We will be wearing clothing we are unaccustomed to, and celebrating all these peoples.”

“’Rhûn silks and Harad jewels and Númenorean headdresses’, Faeldis, are _not_ costumes,” Erestor practically snarled as he stood. The hall began to fall silent. “Forgive me, my Lords, but I find I have lost my appetite.”

“Erestor!” Faeldis had gone pale, and her voice shook as she pled, “Please, do not make a scene. We will be going over details at Council this week, and we can address your objections then.” She jerked her head towards the rest of the tables, and the uncomfortable silence that had fallen. “Do not ruin this feast for everyone. Please be civil.”

“Oh, forgive me for not being _civil_ – and far be it from me to ruin your feast. Enjoy it in my absence.” Turning away from her, Erestor bowed slightly to Elrond and left, robes swirling out behind him as he walked swiftly to the doors without a backward glance.

The hall was silent for a few more moments, before Boridhren engaged the Elf next to him in a rather forced-sounding conversation about the menu. Slowly, conversation began to resume. Glorfindel let out a breath he had not realised he was holding.

“From now on, Faeldis,” said Elrond, sounding very tired, “No more surprises.”

Faeldis’ eyes were beginning to shimmer with unshed tears. “Boridhren and I just wanted everyone to feel luxurious.”

Glorfindel rose quietly, though several Elves still looked in his direction; he tried to imagine what they must be whispering about Erestor. “Forgive me, Lord Elrond, but –”

“Go after him,” Elrond waved him away, and Glorfindel set off in search of Erestor.

Though they had been meeting privately for some time now, it had almost always been in Glorfindel’s rooms, or occasionally in Erestor’s office; while he knew where Erestor’s rooms were, he had never been inside.

He reached the door and knocked. “Erestor?”

After a long moment, the door opened. He stepped inside carefully, gazing at Erestor with concern. “I am sorry.”

Erestor said nothing, only went to his fireplace, and so Glorfindel shut the door behind himself before tentatively following, taking the room in with a quick glance. The sitting room was far smaller than his own, and also more crowded; there were shelves holding books and various intriguing curiosities from Rhûn and Rhovanion, and cupboards, and some cooking paraphernalia by the large fireplace. Erestor knelt by it in his festive finery, stirring something in a small pot that smelt of sharp spices.

“Tea?” he said suddenly.

Glorfindel blinked. “Uh. Yes?”

He watched as Erestor poured the milky tea through a strainer into two strange metal cups, and looked around; there was a couch set a little further back, but by the fireplace there were only cushions by a low table, so he awkwardly sat on the floor next to Erestor and accepted a cup, blowing on the hot liquid to cool it.

“You did not need to miss dinner on my account,” Erestor said quietly.

“I would much rather be here with you,” he replied just as softly. “But I do not know how else to comfort you or support you.”

Erestor shifted to sit cross-legged and sighed. “Look around.”

Confused but obedient, Glorfindel looked around the room again, gaze catching on a skilfully done painting of a group of Kindi Elves; while the stylistic flourishes were new to him, it was still recognisably Erestor seated in their midst, surrounded by Elves that bore a marked resemblance to him and looking strikingly relaxed, with his family, in a way he rarely did in Imladris. There were also wooden carvings of dancing figures in that same elegant, swooping style, painted wooden animals like elephants and strange striped cats, brightly coloured woven hangings and other mementoes of Erestor’s home, as well as other things he thought Erestor might have picked up on his travels, like Silvan-style ornaments. The faint remnants of a heady scent hung in the air. He paused to sip his tea; it was much stronger than the delicate brews Elrond sometimes served in his office, flavoured with sharp spices – he recognised ginger and pepper and cloves, but could not quite name the others – and thick and milky enough to soften their bite, sweetened with sugar. It was good, and he drained half the cup.

On a table facing the window was a bronze statuette of a tall stately figure surrounded by leaping waves, cast so skilfully that he half expected the bronze waves to come crashing down. He squinted at the figure.

“Is that Ulmo?”

“Yes.” Erestor sipped his tea. “We respect him, for he was chief of those who argued for us to be left free in the East.”

Ranged on either side of Ulmo were various smaller statuettes of figures Glorfindel did not recognise, dancing on flowers or carrying strange curved bows or long-handled stringed instruments. Erestor nodded towards them. “Lesser Maiar walked amongst us in those early days, like Melian did here when Thingol encountered her. They dwelt near or with us, and taught us things, and although they have long since left these shores, we remember them fondly. You see,” he added, lips curling, “the Eldar think the Avari are forsaken, and care not for the Valar or Maiar, and if I were to disabuse them of that notion they would be _so_ confused, without an excuse to distrust us. They might have to confront the fact that they merely distrust us for making a different choice to them and taking a different path; for being Other.”

Glorfindel bowed his head a little, not knowing what to say in the face of such old pain.

“This is my culture, Glorfindel. This is to me what your mother’s banner is to you. My altar. My mother’s jewellery. The art I grew up seeing on our walls. The food. The clothes I wear. And to the Noldor, they are but exotic curios. Faeldis would have them treat all other cultures as mere costumes, no different from those animal costumes you mentioned. They would not know, or care, that these –” he paused to gesture at one of the brocade wraps he sometimes wore, flung over the couch, “ – are worn differently according to gender and region; mine are in the Madurai style, and they are worn differently in the other Kindi and Indi cities. There was a performance in the Hall of Fire, a century or two ago, with a Penni character, but of course we have no Penni Elves here. Faeldis’ sister was in it, and she begged to borrow one of those from me. She draped it around herself like a shawl, and paired it with Sindarin wedding jewellery and a Penni headscarf, and she looked _ridiculous_. But when I objected, the two of them only cried that I was ruining their fun. Now they demand that I stand by while all of Imladris does the same, treating my culture and others like a grazing-board.”

His dark eyes were sparking with fury, fingers clenched. Glorfindel reached across to wrap his fingers loosely around Erestor’s wrist; the gold bangle there was cold against his skin. After a long moment, Erestor unclenched his fingers and slid them down to twine with Glorfindel’s.

“I am sorry. This is poor repayment for missing dinner.”

“It is no matter. Besides, the tea is very good,” Glorfindel replied softly; the sight of Erestor’s expression softening slightly, lips curving up, was sweeter than any dessert he might have had. He raised their joint hands, pressing a kiss to Erestor’s fingers. “There is a Council meeting the day after tomorrow, is there not?”

“Yes. I have many things to say there; I suppose she and Boridhren and their ilk will all come away complaining about angry, bitter, shrill Erestor who never lets them have any fun, again.” Erestor’s expression darkened again; Glorfindel released his fingers in favour of tentatively pulling the other Elf into his arms. Erestor went willingly, resting his head on Glorfindel’s shoulder, though his shoulders were still tense.

“I will be with you, and if Faeldis will not listen to you and Elrond is hesitant, I am sure that having a reborn lord of Gondolin on your side will help.”

Erestor snorted, and the tension slowly seeped out of his shoulders. “Thank you.”

* 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: If Faeldis seems over-the-top, or unrealistic in her reactions – I have, rather self-indulgently, based her in large part upon a woman I know IRL and have had very similar interactions with. We literally once had a conversation at a mediation table where I was just asking her to apologise to me for making a decision regarding my department without my input and then ignoring me when I’d tried to engage her about it, so that we could move on and work together, and she kept crying and saying I was being harsh and angry and that she had not meant to hurt me and why wouldn’t I see that.
> 
> I also recommend the brilliant book _White Tears, Brown Scars_ if you’re curious about the wider history and context of this phenomenon, and the intersection of race and gender.

It had been a tense couple of days, and as Glorfindel hovered in the corridor, he could not help but be relieved that it would be resolved in some form or other, and hopeful for Erestor’s sake.

Erestor soon appeared, his usual scrolls in hand; he wore his dark scholar’s robes over a blue brocade doublet, and he gave Glorfindel a small smile.

“More embroidery practice?” He lifted a hand to gently skim the tiny flowers decorating the sleeves of Glorfindel’s shirt. “They are lovely.”

Glorfindel reached up to catch his hand and squeezed it. Isteth joined them then, looking nervous but determined. “Shall we?”

“Wait.” Erestor drew one of his thick golden bangles off his wrist and took Glorfindel’s hand. “May I put this on you?”

“Yes?” Confusion and joy warred in Glorfindel; for all that Erestor had accepted his courtship, he did not often initiate such gestures. “What is it for?”

Erestor _hmm_ ed as he gently worked the bangle onto Glorfindel’s wrist; it was an open bangle, which made it a little easier. “Luck for today, I suppose. Courtship. Back home we give a gift of jewellery to signal acceptance into one’s family.”

The gold was warm from Erestor’s skin, and it kindled an answering warmth in Glorfindel. He held on to Erestor’s hand, pressing a kiss to it as he held that dark gaze for a long moment; it was broken by Isteth coughing.

“You can gaze lovingly at each other later. We should go in.”

They entered the council room. Faeldis and Boridhren were already there, heads bent together in conferral, and they straightened now. Faeldis looked as though she had been weeping, her eyes reddened and her fair face extremely wan, though she met Erestor’s gaze. Boridhren regarded them all with dislike, which was a novel experience for Glorfindel; the other Elf had always in the past been extremely polite to him.

“Good morning,” he greeted them cheerily. Boridhren did not react, though Faeldis gave him a small sad smile.

Elrond entered then, gaze sweeping over the table as he took his place, expression unreadable. Other members of the Council began filing in, shooting Erestor and Faeldis glances.

“Shall we begin?” Elrond asked. “Erestor, I believe you have something you want to address first.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” Erestor cleared his throat. “Lady Faeldis, I ask that you reconsider the theme for next Yestarë.”

She blinked up at him sadly. “I do not understand why, Erestor. Why are you so upset by this? I simply wanted us to celebrate these new ties with new realms.”

“You can celebrate it without dressing up. It is exploitative and harmful.”

“You have in the past spoken about feeling isolated and alone here, and homesick. Why then are you so against something that ought to bring you joy? Is it because you and I have clashed in the past? You always criticise me, Erestor, and I –”

“Do not try to reduce this to some petty grudge,” Erestor snapped. “I am not trying to attack _you_. I am criticising your idea, which I thought was what we did in this room. I understand that it came from a place of kindness and wanting to celebrate cultures, but you should have actually consulted with someone _from_ said cultures first, if your goal was truly to uplift _us_. Instead, you decided to simply declare that you were celebrating us, whether we would or no, and spoke about which parts of our cultures you found attractive enough to remove from their context and wear as a _costume_.”

Faeldis’ eyes began to shimmer with tears. “How could I ask you about this when you would only react angrily?”

“Faeldis has been nothing but polite to you, and you are nothing but angry in return!” interjected Boridhren.

“I did not realise my tone of voice was more important than the actual subject of discussion.” Erestor’s voice was practically dripping icicles.

“Which is what, exactly?” Boridhren’s eyes narrowed. “You say we are disrespecting you and should not wear non-Noldorin clothes –”

“That is _not_ what I said –”

“ – yet you yourself stand here in Noldorin garb! If your precious Avarin culture means so much to you, why do you live with us and dress like us when it suits you?”

“Do you think we have a _choice_? Ask the Sindar how they felt, when you ignored King Thingol’s lordship and established your own High King. You returned to these lands and asserted yourselves as the dominant culture and ignored Sindarin sovereignty and treated what few Avari you encountered as beasts; when I first arrived in Lindon _none_ of you would take me seriously until I assimilated, until I wore your clothes and adopted your mannerisms. I have _had_ to dress like you to be acknowledged as _civilised_ , because the Noldor hold all the power here. Our two situations are not and cannot be equal.”

“What do the Sindar have to do with this?” Boridhren scoffed. “And what do they have to complain of, in any case? They forced their language on us at the expense of Quenya.”

At this Isteth snorted. “Do not pretend that Elu Thingol’s edict was obeyed fully.”

Glorfindel was unsure of whether he should be chiming in, but Erestor met his gaze and nodded slightly, and so he interjected, “We still spoke Quenya in Gondolin.”

“As did my foster-fathers,” Elrond said mildly; his seeming intercession on Erestor’s part had Boridhren looking both uncomfortable and mulish. “But we are diverging now.”

“Yes,” agreed Erestor. “As I was saying – you cannot equate the two. When I choose my wardrobe in the mornings I have to give it a good deal more thought than mere colour; I must remember to always dress in the clothes of Eriador if I have to attend Council, for instance, or if I am teaching the junior scribes, or doing anything else of the sort. I cannot help that I am clearly, visibly Avari, but by wearing your garb I show that I am part of your culture in demeanour if not looks and therefore ‘acceptable’ in your eyes; meanwhile, if I wear my own Kindi clothes, it marks me even further as Other. Perhaps not so much now and here,” he added, “but it was very marked in Lindon, when the scholars and Counselors there would dismiss me and act like I could not speak Sindarin, or be a little more willing to listen, based upon my garb and bearing. And that is what I mean when I say the two are not equal. I did not simply choose to wear your garb because of its aesthetic value, as pretty as it is. Yours is the dominant culture here, and in order to participate in said culture, I _had_ to wear your garb.”

Glorfindel looked around the table; Faeldis still looked injured and Boridhren belligerent, but others were nodding and looking thoughtful or sympathetic.

“But this is not about making you wear our clothes,” Faeldis cried. “I do not hate you, Erestor; I do not hate your people. Would us bringing more elements from your culture not make you feel more at home, and not single you out so much? Are we not allowed to appreciate your culture?”

Erestor pinched the bridge of his nose. “No,” he gritted out. “Because you do not appreciate my culture _on me_ ; you only appreciate it when it is divorced from me and may be used to suit your own needs. I have already explained how I am penalised for wearing my own traditional garb; yet, when the Noldor wear that same garb, they are praised and admired. Do you recall your sister’s role in that bedamned play, and the clothes she wore? The clothes that only I objected to, because everyone else praised her?”

Faeldis’ lips trembled. “You really hurt her feelings then; she did not mean to hurt you!”

“No, I imagine she did not, and neither did you. But your _intentions_ are irrelevant when you still cause hurt and refuse to acknowledge it. If you accidentally tripped someone, you would apologise, would you not? You may not have _meant_ to trip them, you may not have stuck your foot out hoping to cause them to stumble, you did not see them coming, but you caused them to trip nonetheless, and you would apologise for the hurt you did inadvertently cause.”

“You insist on painting me the villain!” She was openly weeping now.

“If I may,” Isteth interrupted then. “Lady Faeldis, I was promoted and appointed to this Council less than two years ago. But in that short time, I have observed that when Erestor comments on a proposal or criticises a suggestion or offers an idea of his own – when he criticises a _proposal_ , not you – you tend to ignore his contributions, or act as if he has criticised you instead. When he objects, you either smother him in bland pleasantness or once again play the victim. Erestor scrutinises anything raised by any member of the Council; I have not observed you react quite this strongly and consistently to others, not even to Sindar like myself. It might be that of the two of you, it is _you_ who bears a grudge.”

Faeldis gasped, still weeping. Boridhren leaned forward, face thunderous, but Elrond held up a hand. “If your next words are in contradiction of Isteth, Boridhren, save your breath. I agree.”

Lindir cleared his throat then, which surprised everyone; while he attended Council, he usually merely watched and said little, and would later laugh that matters of state were of little interest to a minstrel. Now, however, his usually merry mien was serious.

“I would like this Council to maintain a more constructive focus,” he said, his voice low and melodic but still commanding the room. “Master Erestor, you have spoken most eloquently about why Lady Faeldis’ vision for the commemorative ball would cause you hurt, and I for one would not want to cause you more pain. But you said earlier that she should have consulted with you, if she truly wanted to celebrate your culture. So I ask you now – what would you have us do? Is there a way to proceed with the idea in a more respectful manner?”

Erestor seemed genuinely surprised, breaking into a smile as he rarely did at Council. “Thank you, Master Minstrel. I do have suggestions.” He unfurled a scroll before himself, though he did not give the contents more than a cursory glance before passing it to Elrond. “Instead of us celebrating other cultures by playing their roles in their absence, let us invite them and celebrate _with_ them. Let us invite emissaries of Númenor, the Greenwood, Laurelindórenan, Harad, and the Avarin kingdoms _here_ , or work with the King to host this at Lindon. A year is short notice for those in far Rhûn, but manageable. A trade market, cultural shows, and a joint celebration here would provide the opportunity to mingle and share our cultures with each other, on slightly more equal terms.”

“It has been too long since we hosted Men of Númenor,” Elrond nodded. “But Erestor, I have read ahead a little – what is this about Dwarves?” He held up the scroll, looking more amused than anything else at the unorthodox suggestion.

“I thought we could invite the Lord of Moria; ever have we paid Dwarves for their labour in building and maintaining our kingdoms and forging things of beauty, but outside of Eregion the Noldor have not attempted to build true friendships with them. Not only would we be able to celebrate _with_ them, we could usher in a new era of diplomatic ties.”

“You have given this a lot of thought.” Elrond looked over the scroll again. “Lindir, what say you? Is this constructive enough for you?”

Lindir laughed. “Master Erestor is dangling before me the chance to meet musicians from distant kingdoms and learn their works; how can I refuse? I approve heartily.”

Nodding, Elrond now looked to Faeldis. “Well, Faeldis, what say you?”

Though it had normally been Elrond’s practice to not influence his counsellors towards one side or the other, Faeldis clearly did not feel able to disagree. She nodded, tears still rolling down her cheeks. Next to her, Boridhren slumped back in his seat, petulance writ all over his features.

Elrond looked around the table, but nobody registered any objections. “Well then, Melpomaen, make a note to have copies of this made for everyone here. I would like further refinements, suggestions, and criticisms prepared for the next meeting. The general spirit of the idea, however, I think very sound, and I think Gil-galad will agree.” He smiled at Erestor. “Lindon would be a better venue, I think, and I will certainly be forwarding this to him. Well done.”

Erestor bowed his head slightly, his heart beating fast in relief and joy. “Thank you.”

“Now,” continued Elrond, “this has been an intense meeting already, and I think we have all been given a lot to think about. I suggest we break early, and take some time to rest; we shall meet again an hour after lunch to go over the other items for today.”

Slowly, everyone began getting to their feet and filing out in silence. Elrond’s voice rang over the shuffling of feet and scraping of chairs. “Faeldis, Boridhren, please stay.”

Several of the Elves exchanged glances, but said nothing until they had all left the room and shut the door behind them, lingering in the sunlit corridor.

Malthorn approached Erestor hesitantly; they had never really spoken much, beyond Council matters and civil greetings. “I cannot yet say I agree with you wholly,” he began, “but I will think on these matters. Thank you for the work you put in today.”

Erestor nodded. “I appreciate that, Malthorn; that is all I can ask. Thank you.”

Others nodded at Erestor as they left, or avoided his eye; Lindir winked at him, and Erestor smiled back. When only he, Glorfindel and Isteth were left standing in the corridor, he exhaled long and slow.

“Erestor, that went better than I could have hoped!” Isteth flung her arms around him, squeezing tightly, and he laughed and hugged her back.

“Thank you for supporting me, Isteth.”

“Always, Erestor.” She drew back and smiled brilliantly at him. “Now, I intend to go and make good use of my sudden leisure time, and I suggest you two do the same.” With a parting wink, she darted away before Erestor could formulate a retort.

Shaking his head, he turned to Glorfindel, and faltered slightly at the pride and affection in that blue gaze.

“Well done,” Glorfindel said quietly, taking Erestor’s hand and pulling him close.

“Thank you,” Erestor replied equally softly. “There is still much work to be done, and there are others yet who will not be so amenable to changing their minds –”

Glorfindel had pressed a light finger against his lips, cutting him off. “Erestor?”

Erestor raised an eyebrow at him, trying to look stern but unable to hide his smile. “Hm?”

“Take Isteth’s advice and rest, this afternoon.” Glorfindel leaned down, Erestor leaned up, and their lips met softly.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. If only these issues had happy endings IRL. 
> 
> Thank you again to [Zhie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie) for the [art](https://www.deviantart.com/z-h-i-e/art/Untitled-854359399), [AnnElspethRaven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnEllspethRaven/pseuds/AnnEllspethRaven) for beta-ing, and [Ulan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulan/pseuds/Ulan) and [peasantswhy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peasantswhy/pseuds/peasantswhy) for general cheerleading.
> 
> One of the big themes I wanted to tackle here was, as mentioned in the chapter opening notes, the intersection of race and gender in the phenomenon known as white women’s tears: when white women employ their status as hallowed victim to silence BIPOC. As a brown woman myself, this is something I have to deal with a lot IRL. However, because Erestor is male, I was also wary of falling into the slashfic trap of the female antagonist, with its uncomfortable undertones of misogyny. I tried to give both Erestor and Glorfindel good female friends to counteract that, and I hope it worked; if it did not, please let me know and I will work harder on that in the future.  
> Otherwise, I ask that even if this made you uncomfortable, you let these ideas sit with you. Zhie, my artist, expressed that she wanted this to be about Erestor finding his voice and becoming an educator, and I hope that I’ve managed to succeed there without breaking immersion in Tolkien’s world too much.


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